


You can’t always get what you want

by loveinadoorway



Series: Want an axe to break the ice [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ladies and gentlepeople, I give you a little bit of porn.</p>
<p>And more hurt.</p>
<p>The only consolation I have to offer is that that Stones song says:</p>
<p>
  <em>You can't always get what you want</em>
  <br/><em>But if you try sometimes well you might find</em>
  <br/><em>You get what you need</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can’t always get what you want

"So."

Fine. They hadn’t been back at the flat for more than a minute and that man was standing there, issuing that monosyllable like a challenge to a duel.  
Bloody prancing princess of crime, standing there, glaring at Lestrade as if there had been something he had done wrong.  
Had he? How? What? He had just picked up Sherlock from rehab. Drove him home. Hadn’t said anything much and most definitely hadn’t done anything.

“What now, Sherlock?” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his neck.

“I’m waiting for your bill.”

What. The. Fuck.

“For services rendered,” Sherlock said, still in the cold, detached voice he had used since that last devastating sentence before Greg had taken him to the clinic.

“Let’s see, Lestrade, if we can tally it up. I guess it is the socially approved thing to thank someone for saving one’s life, even if one didn’t ask for it. Then, you drove me to rehab. You visited nine times in two weeks. You brought me fresh laundry. Oh. And let’s not forget the rather frivolous box of chocolate. And you drove me home just now. Have I forgotten anything, or is that all?”

“I.. Sherlock..  It doesn’t work like this!” Lestrade sputtered, outraged.

“No, Greg, this is PRECISELY how this works. I would say the entire bundle of services rendered tallies up to one full intercourse. Now, how do you want it?”

Lestrade was speechless. Completely and utterly flabbergasted. How dare the man?

“Fine, if you don’t have any preferences yourself, might I suggest we take this to the bedroom and I’ll just lie down and present my butt to you?”

Lestrade couldn’t remember the last time he had been so furious, had felt so insulted and had hated himself quite this fervently for the betrayal by his own treacherous body.

And the world’s only consulting detective naturally noticed right away.

“I see this scenario is agreeable to you. Well then, let’s, shall we?”

Greg had no clue just how that entire thing had gone down, but before he knew it, they were in the bedroom, on the bed, stark naked, with Greg pinning Sherlock down.  
Sherlock, who with one hand opened the nightstand drawer and tossed lube and rubbers at Greg. Sherlock, who turned to present Greg with the perfect angle.  
Sherlock, who moaned deliciously when Greg fingered him open.  
Sherlock, who wasn’t looking at him at all.

He shouldn’t do this - and more importantly, he shouldn’t enjoy doing this. Not with what Sherlock had said, not with how he had said it. But he just couldn’t pass it up, couldn’t say no, seemed to have completely misplaced his morals, along with any inhibitions he might have had.  
And how could not enjoying be more important than not doing, anyway? Not even his own internal monologue made sense anymore.

He just wanted, plain and simple. Needed. Craved.

Greg’s second finger found his way inside. Sherlock whimpered, a strange, broken sound.  
When the third finger breached Sherlock, the man went completely still. Greg gentled his touch, his other hand rubbing circles on Sherlock’s lower back as his fingers scissored and pumped.

Greg made soothing, nonsensical noises, as he pulled his fingers out and aligned himself to push home. When the tip of his cock breached Sherlock’s anus, Greg knew he could never stop doing this, could never do without this, no matter how much he hated himself for rather having loveless sex than nothing at all.

Sherlock moaned again, strained backwards, practically begging Greg to fill him.

Never in all of Lestrade’s discreet dalliances with men had it felt this good. It was like coming home, it was like being on fire, it was like being turned inside out, it was a million conflicting things at the same time.

It didn’t take more than four or five thrusts for him to climax. He gripped Sherlock’s cock seconds before and pumped it once or twice. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to come. Had, in fact, resigned himself to it that he wouldn’t. But just as Lestrade climaxed, he could feel Sherlock come, too.

He collapsed on the other man, gripping Sherlock’s white hips tightly. Only a heartbeat later, so it felt, Sherlock squirmed out from under him. Lestrade reached for his… lover? Or whatever else he could or should be called? He tried to pull him close for a kiss, but Sherlock pulled back completely and got up.

“One rule, Lestrade. Just one. There will be no kisses between us.”


End file.
